


Beefcake Mountain

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Series: Steter Week 2019 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deaton's not the bad guy for once, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Humor, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Little bit of graphic injuries, M/M, Murder, Scott Whomst, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 00:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Shortly after moving back to Beacon Hills, the left hand of the Hale Pack opened a text from a mysterious number."Is there a mirror in your pants? Because I can see myself in them."What thef—





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can all agree that I deserve to be dragged over the title, so feel free.

Stiles sat in the Jeep, tapping the steering wheel in time with the music. He checked the clock again and let out a groan. Seven whole-ass minutes he’d been waiting. He considered honking the horn, in the futile hope that it might make Derek move his ass faster than a snail, but the thought of Talia coming out and giving him Disappointed Alpha Face stopped him.

As the clock tipped over into a full ten minutes of sitting in Derek’s driveway, Stiles began to consider drastic action: actually getting out of his car and going inside the house.

Abruptly the front door swung open, filling the porch with light. Stiles had a moment of exasperated relief that Derek was finally done practicing his insufferable smirk or whatever he did before going to see Paige, before he realized that the silhouette in the doorway was too tall and too broad to be Derek. The door snapped shut behind the figure a moment later, leaving just enough light from the windows for Stiles to see the man.

His jaw dropped.

What drew his attention first were sharp blue eyes, an angled jaw, and a straight nose. He was on the phone, Stiles unable to hear the conversation, but that wasn’t important anyway. What _was _important was that thick neck, leading down to equally muscled shoulders. Stiles followed the line of his back, down to a perfectly round ass, where he lingered for a while, and then finally noticed the impatient tapping of the man’s foot.

Stiles looked back up at Sexy Porch Stranger’s face, noticing that his gorgeous features had rearranged into an unmistakably irritated expression. Stiles’ curiosity pricked at him, and he briefly considered throwing out an eavesdropping charm. He was just lifting a hand to subtly send one out when the man’s eyes flashed.

They were blue.

Stiles couldn’t decide if he was more shocked or intrigued. The Hales certainly killed; any pack would have to in order to protect their territory, but they didn’t deal in murderers. Whatever had caused this man’s blue eyes must have been complicated, and Stiles _lived_ to understand the complicated.

Especially if the answer could be found by licking six feet of muscles.

Stiles startled when the passenger door suddenly opened, flailing against the driver’s side window until he realized that it was Derek finally getting into the car. Derek wrinkled his nose as he sniffed the air in the cab.

“Dude,” he said flatly.

Stiles gestured wildly at the porch, only to realize that the man was closing the door behind himself, having gone back inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were related to a hundred and eighty pounds of _pure beefcake?”_ Stiles demanded.

Derek looked at him, incredulous.

“Uncle Peter? Uncle Peter is _not_ a beefcake. He’s Uncle Peter.”

“No, he absolutely _is,”_ Stiles disagreed vehemently. “He’s categorically a hunk. And a babe. A hunk-babe. And how could he possibly he your uncle? There’s no way he’s anywhere near as old as your mom.”

Derek looked vaguely ill at hearing his uncle described as a hunk, so he stuck to just answering Stiles’ question.

“He’s twenty seven. Grandma had him way after mom. He was actually just eighteen when she died. He moved in with us, but he had kind of a rough time and he left for college after a while. He never comes back for long, but he just finally passed the bar. I don’t know if we’ll see him more or not.” Derek actually sounded pretty bummed about the fact that he didn’t get to see him very often. Stiles knew how important family was to him.

Stiles put a comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Give me his number.”

Derek’s head snapped up to stare at Stiles in disbelief.

“What?! No!”

“C’mon,” Stiles wheedled. “Give me his number.”

“He’s _twenty seven,_ Stiles! You’re _sixteen!”_

“He’s also a mountain of pure muscle. I need to climb him, Derek. He’s my Everest.”

“Oh my God.”

“Oh come on, I’m literally driving you to your girlfriend so you can make out with her.” Stiles finally shifted the Jeep into gear to prove his words, backing out of the Hale’s long drive. “You gotta return the favor. It’s the law of the bros.”

“Not if it’s my uncle that you’re chasing!!”

Stiles continued arguing the whole way to the party, but made no headway by the time they arrived. However, as soon as Derek saw Paige, he stopped paying attention to literally anything else in the room, which made swiping his phone that much easier.

The password was no problem (1234, Derek, please) and Stiles had the number before you could say, “Mieczysław stop it, you’re being illegal.”

(To be fair, it would have taken several minutes for any native English speaker to spit that one out.)

Then Stiles tucked himself into a corner of the party and started texting.

* * *

**From: Unknown**  
You must be a broom, because you’ve swept me off my feet.

Peter stared at the text, utterly perplexed. He’d been expecting another begging message from Stephen.

**From: Unknown**  
You know what, maybe comparing you to a broom wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, go ahead and delete that one I’m going to start again.

**From: Unknown**  
Is there a mirror in your pants? Because I can see myself in them.

**From: Peter**  
How did you get this number?

**From: Unknown**  
Through very legal and extremely ethical circumstances. How about this one: Spotify must be broken, because you’re not listed in the hottest singles.

Peter glanced at the phone number again. It was local. He relaxed a little bit. Whoever it was couldn’t be too much trouble… and they were also providing a distraction from Stephen and his irritating attempts to win Peter back, despite the fact that Peter had been very clear that their arrangement wasn't permanent.

**From: Peter**  
What’s your name?

**From: Unknown**  
You can call me Microsoft, because I’ll be crashing at your place tonight.

**From: Peter**  
If you’re trying to hit on me, using the words “micro” and “soft” are unlikely to do you any favors.

**From: Bad At This**  
:(

Another text came in, actually from Stephen this time. Peter deleted it without reading.

**From: Peter**  
Did Talia give you my number?

Peter thought it was a longshot. Not the idea that Talia would give out his number to try to set him up, but the idea that Talia would give his number to someone who used pick up lines that had clearly come from some “Worst Pick Up Lines” Buzzfeed article.

**From: Bad At This**  
Talia knows my boss. And my dad. I don’t think anyone who knows both of those people in relation to me would ever give me a phone number. Unless it was maybe the phone number for a psychiatrist.

**From: Bad At This**  
WAIT I mean I’m very cool and smart and good looking

**From: Bad At This**  
And mentally stable!!

Despite himself, Peter laughed. The mystery texter was someone relatively close to the family, then.

**From: Bad At This**  
I HAVE to be mentally stable otherwise Talia would never let me near her wards.

The _wards?_ This must be someone _very_ close to the family. The only person Talia ever let work on the wards was Deaton.

“Talia, is Deaton working with anyone new? A fellow druid or mage?”

Talia looked up, a confused crease in her brow.

“No. You know Deaton, he mostly keeps to himself.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. Maybe he was looking in the wrong direction-

“In fact, the only person I ever see Deaton with these days is Stiles.”

Peter was utterly perplexed.

“What’s a Styles?”

Talia rolled her eyes.

“Do you _ever_ listen to Derek talk?"

"Why would I? All he wants is for someone to sit there while he blabbers on about how wonderful his girlfriend is. I can do that without listening."

Talia looked like she wanted to disagree with him, but couldn't do it without lying.

Instead, she said, "Stiles a friend of Derek's, and Deaton’s trainee. He was here picking Derek up for the party earlier, although he didn’t come inside. I think he’s always a little worried that he’ll get extra homework assignments if he hangs around the pack too long,” she said with a little laugh.

It clicked into place then. _Very legal and extremely ethical circumstances_ indeed.

“Why do you ask?” she questioned curiously, leaning over to try to see his phone. Peter tilted the screen away to spite her nosiness, but answered anyway.

“It would appear that he’s taken an interest in me,” he said lightly. Talia snorted.

“Oh good luck with that. That kid gives new meaning to the word ‘persistent.’” Then she eyed him sharply. “He’s also the son of the sheriff, in case you were having any ideas.” Peter scoffed.

“Please, Talia. I don’t even know who this child is. And you know I have a taste for more refined things. A brat who hangs around with Derek is hardly going to pique my interest.”

Talia seemed to settle a little at that.

“Well. Let him down gently.”

Peter was already typing back.

**From: Peter**  
Is my nephew’s company so boring that you’ve had to reach for outside entertainment? Or have you just been shunned by the party at large?

**From: Styles**  
Derek left to make heart eyes at Paige as soon as we got here. Everyone else here is drunk, and also not made of 6 feet of muscle. I’ve made the choices for my evening accordingly.

**From: Peter**  
Are you trying to tell me that you _aren’t_ drinking? At a high school party?

**From: Styles**  
The last time I borrowed a bottle of Jack from my dad, I accidentally emptied out the pond in the northeast part of the preserve. The time before that I passed out and then woke up in a herd of elk two counties over. So yeah, I probably won’t drink again until I’m done training with Deaton.

Peter read that with a raised eyebrow.

**From: Peter**  
So all of those pick up lines were completely sober. Unfortunate.

**From: Styles**  
:( :(

**From: Peter**  
Find someone your own age to pick on you, Styles.

**From: Styles**  
omg Stiles not Styles. It’s not a DJ name, it’s a shortened version of my last name.

**From: Peter**  
You’re the sheriff’s child, correct? How did you get “Stiles” from “Stilinski”? Where did the “es” come from?

**From: Stiles**  
I can’t tell if you’re flirting. Are you flirting? Is this weird lawyer flirting? I can get into it if you give me a clue.

Peter couldn’t stop the hint of a smile working its way onto his face. _“_Persistent” was right.

**From: Peter**  
Go party with the other high school children, Stiles. I’m having grown up time.

**From: Stiles**  
:( :( :(

Peter finally put away his phone, done with the evening’s entertainment. He did have to wonder, though... he must have been exaggerating.

“Did Stiles really empty the pond over by the northern cliff?”

“Oh God, I’d forgotten he did that,” Talia said, rubbing a hand down her face.

“You _forgot?”_ Peter said, shocked to receive confirmation.

She shrugged.

“Things like that happen a lot with Stiles. The kelpies were furious. Deaton couldn’t figure out how he’d done it, so we had to wait for Stiles to sober up before we could fix it. It was last year, and he was even skinnier then than he is now, so it took a while for the booze to burn out.”

Peter smirked at his mental picture of the chaos that must have reigned around his nephew’s friend.

“What a little monster. I’m glad you’re the one who has to deal with him.”

“Yeah, well if you’re serious about opening a firm here to do public defense there’s always a chance you’ll end up dealing with him too,” Talia warned.

Peter’s smile got a little broader.

“Because his father’s the sheriff or because I’ll be defending him?”

“I plead the fifth, or whichever one it is. Sixth? Third.”

Peter laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talia refuses to witness against herself in court, demands that she get a speedy trial, and will curb stomp any soldiers that sneak into her house.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s trial was in recess when his phone started lighting up.

**From: Stiles**  
Hey.

**From: Stiles**  
Hey Peter.

**From Stiles:**  
Peter I know you’re not in court right now answer me.

Peter took his eyes off of his case documents long enough to type back.

**From: Peter**  
If Derek is having some kind of teenage emergency, call Talia.

**From: Stiles**  
Derek’s life is a constant teenage emergency because of how painfully boring it is. He and Paige are studying right now. That’s not even a euphemism, Paige is actually making flashcards.

**From: Stiles**  
But whatever, I’m not texting you because of Derek. My dad’s in court with you today right? He’s a witness in the Gruber case.

Peter furrowed his brow and looked up from his bench. Sure enough, the sheriff was down at the other end of the hall eating his own lunch. Curious, Peter decided to answer.

**From: Peter**  
Yes

**From: Stiles**  
Is he eating a burger?

Peter looked down the hall again, willing to entertain this just enough to see where it was going.

**From: Peter**  
Yes

**From: Stiles**  
I fucking knew it.

Nothing else came after that so Peter mentally shrugged and went back to reviewing his notes. Ten minutes later, there was a disturbance at the other end of the hall.

“-heart attack! Do you know how many saturated fats are in this? _Do you?_ And do you know how many saturated fats are in tilapia? _None._ Which is why I made it for you to take to work!”

“Stiles-”

“You’ll get plaque buildup in your arteries, Dad. Do you want the surgeon to have to cut into you, break your ribs, and then scrape out your arteries? Because that’s what will happen. It’s gross. And life threatening.”

“Son-”

The ruckus got closer, and Peter realized the sheriff was being lectured by a lanky, pale skinned boy as the sheriff dragged him away.

“I bought new tupperware for it, Dad. Fish-specific tupperware. The tupperware will feel bad if you don’t use it. Do you want the tupperware to feel bad? Hey, hi Peter!”

The kid suddenly dug in his heels, forcing his dad to stop with him before they passed by Peter’s seat. Up close, he could see the last vestiges of childhood hanging around the kid’s face, bright intelligent eyes doing nothing to cancel out the fact that he very much looked like a sixteen year old.

“It’s me, Stiles! The not-DJ! You’re defending Gruber right? You shouldn’t spend too much energy on it, he’s super guilty. Like, mega-guilty. Did you see the files on-”

“Stiles,” the sheriff said through gritted teeth. “Please leave Mr. Hale alone, and for the love of God stop talking about the case files that you very much do not have permission to access.”

“But-!”

The sheriff started tugging again.

“I’m sorry I forgot the tilapia at home, I _promise_ I will remember it tomorrow, now _please_ go back to school before I get another call from the truancy officer.” Their voices faded as the sheriff finally pulled Stiles outside.

Curious, Peter sniffed the air where Stiles had been standing a moment before. The smell of rain and coffee mixed with a combination of burnt matches and ozone. It wasn’t like anything he’d smelled before. He wondered what exactly Stiles _was._ What kind of being had the off-hand power to accidentally empty a pond? Or did that have more to do with him being the kind of person who skipped school to hound his father about nutrition and tupperware?

A few minutes before the recess ended, as Peter was gathering his papers, the sheriff came back in and jogged up to him.

“Hey, I just wanted to apologize for the interruption. I don’t think we’ve officially been introduced, I’m John Stilinski.” John stuck out his hand. Peter accepted it, subtly scenting the air around him, wondering if Stiles had inherited his magic from his father, but there was nothing unusual in his scent.

“It’s no problem. I actually owe you my own apology, I’m afraid I’m probably the reason he came down here. It would appear he took my number from my nephew’s phone to text me. When he asked what you were eating, I didn’t see the harm in answering.” He cringed a little for apologetic effect, although he actually found more hilarity than contrition in the whole situation.

“Yeah, Stiles usually finds a way to get information regardless.” John sighed. “Sorry about that too.”

Peter genially waved him off, and they headed back into the courtroom together. Gruber looked up from where he sat at the defendants table, arms crossed and legs shackled, scowling at the two of them being friendly.

Peter wasn’t too concerned about it. After all, he was pretty sure Stiles was actually right about this one, “regardless” of how he’d gotten his information.

* * *

Summer passed pleasantly enough, with few difficulties worse than an annoyance. Everything was calm until about halfway through the fall, when Peter arrived at his sister’s house to discover something of a ruckus.

He could hear yelling happening inside the house, and Derek and Cora were standing with their ears to the door. Derek looked apprehensive, Cora, delighted.

Peter cautiously wandered up, hands in his pockets.

“Stiles blew it!” Cora supplied gleefully before Peter had to ask. Peter immediately tensed, wondering if something had actually blown up. He’d found that with Stiles, you never could tell.

“It was an accident, Cora!” Derek hissed. “He didn’t mean to!”

“He levitated a whole _car_ in front of her, Derek. He full on Matilda-ed out.”

“In front of who?” Peter pressed.

Derek looked away uncomfortably.

“Paige,” he muttered.

Peter should have guessed. Who else did Stiles and Derek ever spend time with?

“What happened? Where is she now?”

“I took her home when the yelling started,” Derek mumbled.

Peter calculated. Paige lived ten minutes away, which meant that the lecture had been going on for at least twenty minutes, probably closer to thirty considering how long it usually took Derek to say goodbye. Paying attention now, he was a little surprised to realize that Deaton was the one raising his voice, not his sister. He hadn’t known Deaton could be riled to that level.

Then again if anyone was capable of it, it was Stiles.

It was five more minutes before the voices finally died down, and then another five after that before the door opened and Stiles was marched out of the house, a grimace on his face and Deaton’s hand steering his shoulder.

Stiles’ expression brightened a little when he saw Peter, raising his hand to wave when a dark look and a tightened grip from Deaton stopped him. Stiles looked sheepishly back at Peter and shrugged his free shoulder before getting into the car and being driven away.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Talia, who was leaning against the doorway. She sighed.

“Unfortunately, Paige is smart. Very smart. And just open minded enough that her figuring things out is a real possibility.”

Derek looked stricken. Talia sighed again.

“Bring her over, Derek. We’ll do a full explanation, and hopefully prevent her from thinking we’re some kind of cult or whatever.”

The smile on Derek’s face was blindingly hopeful as he whipped out his phone to text her. Peter raised an eyebrow at his sister.

“You’re sure?” He didn’t actually think it was a terrible idea; the girl was dating a werewolf and best friends with a some-kind-of-magic kid. It was likely she could handle it. However, Peter had always felt a solemn obligation to question everything his older sister did. She looked at him, unimpressed.

“Don’t act like you weren’t thinking of bringing it up anyway. We’ve all seen Derek’s sad puppy looks when he has to lie to Paige, and you’ve always been a sucker for things like that.”

“As if I would stoop to involve myself in the love life of a seventeen year old,” Peter scoffed. “The girl is smart. It simply makes sense to introduce her to the pack so that when she’s an older, more valuable resource, she’ll be available to us.” He sniffed, turning his nose up. “Besides, even if I _was_ planning to bring it up, it would have only been to spare us all from Derek’s moping.”

Talia rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching up.

“Sure Peter.”

* * *

A few days after that Peter’s phone chimed again. Hopeful that it was the blond he’d met at the Jungle last week, he checked his lock screen.

**From: Stiles**  
Did it hurt?

Peter heaved a disappointed sigh.

**From: Peter**  
I’m not playing the pick up line game with you, Stiles. Go play with Derek.

**From: Stiles**  
Rude. I can’t hang out with Derek, because my dad has no respect for the Geneva Conventions and I’m being unjustly imprisoned.

**From: Stiles**  
Also, I wasn’t going to say “when you fell from heaven,” I was going to say “when the county prosecutor slapped you for dunking on her in court.”

Peter raised an eyebrow in surprise, his disappointment sliding away to be replaced with amusement.

**From: Peter**  
I hardly think being grounded for outing the supernatural community through a foolish accident is against the Geneva Conventions, especially since you’re not a prisoner of war. However, illegally going through your dad’s case files seems like an excellent way to extend your sentence if that’s what you’re going for.

**From: Peter**  
And yes, it did. She was wearing eight rings. Who ever heard of a lawyer that wears eight rings?

**From: Stiles**  
Eight?? 💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍 That seems excessive.

**From: Stiles**  
It wasn’t an accident btw.

Peter rolled his eyes.

**From: Peter**  
🙄 Yes, I’m sure you absolutely intended to do something that resulted in Deaton verbally tearing off your ass and handing it back to you.

**From: Stiles**  
Okay, first, that was a frighteningly disturbing and accurate description, and second, yeah dude I totally did. I might be kind of a mess when I’m drunk, but as long as I’m sober I usually have my control locked down.

**From: Stiles**  
Derek’s been whining about wanting to tell Paige for like, a year. He kept going back and forth on it, worried about how she’d react and what Talia would say, and blah blah blah what if she doesn’t likeeeeee me anymoreeeeee.

**From: Stiles**  
But, you know, more sympathetic and Derek-y than that.

**From: Stiles**  
Anyway, Paige isn’t dumb. She knew we were both hiding something. She probably would have come up with her own conclusions eventually. I figured if I went first, we could avoid some unfortunate confusion and it might make the whole teeth/claws thing easier to digest.

**From: Stiles**  
Plus, if Deaton killed me, my dad would avenge my death. If Talia killed Derek for outing the secret, I would’ve had to do the avenging. Sounds like a lot of work tbh.

Peter had just finished reading the last text when another one came in- from the blond. He ignored it for a minute.

**From: Peter**  
You seriously took a 40 minute lecture from Deaton, litter box duty at the clinic, and grounding, just so that Derek wouldn’t have to lie to Paige any more?

**From: Stiles**  
His frown was so sad Peter :(

**From: Stiles**  
Like the world's saddest bunny :(

**From: Stiles**  
Seriously tho, he's my best friend. I'd die for the dude. Litter boxes and being grounded aren't such a big deal, in comparison.

Peter sat back and stared at his phone for a moment. He couldn’t decide whether Stiles’ loyalty was admirable or foolish. His phone dinged again.

**From: Stiles**  
Besides, like I said: Paige is smart. Smarter than Derek. And nicer than me. She’ll make a good pack member.

Another text came in from the blond, and Peter finally tapped over.

Admirable _and_ foolish. But possibly slightly more admirable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, Lawyer Peter is a Good and Popular trope, but like. He's definitely been slapped in court. Absolutely.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter stole an apple from the fridge, listening to see who was at the pack house. He could hear Laura muttering to herself as she read from a textbook, and Talia was in her office. Cora and Derek were probably at some practice or other, but someone else was in the backyard.

"Now, watch carefully. Just _watch,_ Stiles."

Peter could hear the exasperation in Deaton's voice and smirked just a little. He started heading for the backyard to see what would no doubt be the entertainment highlight of his day, but his steps stuttered when he heard another unexpected voice from the backyard.

"We're watching, Dr. Deaton. Aren't we, Stiles?"

Peter came out the back door just in time to see Stiles look starry-eyed at a redheaded girl standing next to him, nodding vehemently in agreement with a dopey smile on his face.

"Yeah, of course! We'll watch super closely."

It was pretty clear that he meant he would watch the girl while the girl watched Deaton. Deaton was unamused.

Although Peter was usually one to watch the pack's emissary suffer whenever possible, he leaned over and flicked the back of Stiles' head. Stiles jumped and turned around, scowling at first before he recognized Peter.

"Peter! How did the burglary case go? She's totally guilty, but prosecution was asking for way too much, did you get the sentence-"

"Pay attention to Deaton," Peter interrupted, gesturing toward the man with his apple. "If you accidentally blow up Talia's hydrangeas again she's going to actually murder you." Stiles grimaced at the vivid memory from his birthday party a few months ago.

"Yeah, alright."

Peter stepped back, taking another bite of his apple. He watched with the other two as Deaton took a bowl of... something, and poured it on the ground. Then, using his finger, he drew a symbol in the ground and blew over it. A moment later, a huge gust of wind blew through the backyard, bringing with it hundreds of little flower petals.

"Do you understand?" Deaton asked, straightening up. Stiles and the girl nodded, the former leaping from the porch and the latter gracefully stepping down in heels. "Make sure you collect all of them, you'll need them for tomorrow," Deaton continued. “Lydia, help me check the front and side yards to see if any got lost on their way."

Peter curiously picked up one of the petals, rubbing it between his fingers as Deaton and the girl left the yard.

"Who's the new girl?" Peter asked.

Stiles immediately stopped working to sigh dreamily.

"She's _amazing_. Her name is Lydia, and she's a Banshee which means she can do like, some magic? Not everything I do, but she's more into the academic side of it anyway. She's so smart. She's _soooo _smart, Peter. And she's gorgeous, and she could probably kick my ass, and I _love_ her."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"God, you're even worse than Derek," he sighed, disgruntled. "Apparently we have _two_ lovestruck idiots around the pack house."

"Excuse you, I think you mean lovestruck _genius._ I have a plan. A seven year plan, which is actually based on the four year plan I had for you, but with time added to account for-"

"You had a four year plan for me?" Peter interrupted, surprised and gratified.

"Three to four year plan, depending on whether or not I could get you to take a picture with me at graduation. It was a butterfly effect kind of thing."

Peter took another bite of his apple, considering as he chewed.

"I think I'm a little offended that you gave up on my plan so easily," he mused.

Stiles gave him a somber look and laid a hand on his arm.

"I know, it must be a huge blow to lose your chances with- God, you really are just fucking made of muscle. Jesus Christ, how are your biceps so hard?" Peter smiled, amused, as Stiles got distracted feeling up his arms. He finished his apple while Stiles continued poking him a little and then feeling his own arms in comparison with a little bit of wonder on his face.

"Good luck with your seven year plan, Stiles," Peter said when he finally walked away to toss his apple core. "You can always fall back on the four year one if it doesn't work out." 

* * *

**From: Stiles**  
Let's say, hypothetically, that a hypothetical dude was in a hypothetical nature preserve, and accidentally found a hypothetical nemeton and may have also found some kind of hypothetical demon buried underneath it. Hypothetically.

**From: Peter**  
What.

**From: Peter**  
Stiles what.

**From: Stiles**  
Ok no longer hypothetical it's all happening right now it's happening Peter

**From: Stiles**  
PETER WHAT DO I DO I'M NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO FIND THE NEMETON.

**From: Stiles  
**PETER HELP

* * *

It took Peter a while to find him. He was clearly fighting against a force that didn't want to be found, although whether that was the nemeton itself or the supposed demon that Stiles had dug up, he didn't know. He had to double back a few times despite knowing these woods like the back of his hand, and he was absolutely sure that some of the trees moved.

But eventually he found him, pacing back and forth in front of a tree stump, chewing on his nail while he stared at a little jar on the ground, nestled in the roots.

"Peter!" Stiles yelled, relief making his voice loud.

"Stiles, how did you get here?" Peter asked, still a little out of breath from the hard trek in. He took Stiles by the shoulders and looked him over with a sharp eye to see if he'd been hurt, but he just appeared to be anxious.

Stiles shrugged helplessly, moving Peter's hands up and down.

"I don't know? I was... taking a walk...?"

"You don't take walks, Stiles," Peter said flatly. "You occasionally go on hikes when forced, and you run cross country, but you don't go on walks."

"Fine, alright, I was being emo and having a forest pity party for myself. Lydia's taking the new girl to senior prom. She's like, really nice too so I can't even be a jerk about it. I want to be a jerk so bad, Peter, but she's like a literal Disney princess. Also she's super good at archery and could probably murder me. Anyway, blah blah blah, the love of my life is in love with someone else, I'm actually legit heartbroken, but also the nemeton popped up out of fucking nowhere? And then fucking _talked_ to me?" He gestured wildly to the jar sitting on the ground.

Peter took a deep breath. That was a lot to take in.

"The nemeton _talked_ to you?"

"Kind of? It felt more like a trance. Like I remember digging into the ground to get to the demon, but I don't remember making the choice to do it, you know? Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's a demon. Like ninety nine percent sure.” He started chewing on his nail again before making a face and spitting out some dirt. “I can't leave it here. I think it was poisoning the nemeton. But I can't really take it back to the pack house either, can I? I'm definitely not taking it back to my house. Oh," he said brightly, "can I give it to Deaton?"

Peter finally dropped his hand so he could pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Why didn't you call him first? Isn't he your mentor?"

"I panicked, dude! You're the first person I think of when I panic!"

Peter was only slightly more touched by that than exasperated.

"Pick up the jar. We're going to Deaton's."

* * *

They got some sideways looks in the waiting room at Deaton's.

"It's my pet fly," Stiles supplied after a few too many judgemental silences. "I think she has a UTI."

Luckily they were called back right after that, before anyone could catch Peter biting back a snort.

They went straight to Deaton's office, where Stiles plunked the jar down on his desk and immediately started in on his explanation.

"Okay, I know what you said about the nemeton-"

Deaton sighed and rubbed a hand down his face.

"- but I legit wasn't looking for it. I was just out there being pathetic in the woods when the nemeton came looking for me. Peter will vouch for me, won't you Peter? I'm being one hundred percent honest here. I would so much rather admit to breaking rules than to being a sad dateless teenager, but that's not what happened. I am, in fact, a sad dateless teenager who got accosted by a magic tree."

Deaton just sighed again, even more tired this time.

"I believe you, Stiles. Especially if this," he gestured toward the jar, "was poisoning it." He leaned back in his chair, reaching behind himself for a few little boxes, pulling out various ingredients. "If the nemeton was in distress, then it likely felt your spark and sought you out for help."

Peter frowned.

"What kind of a spark aside from an Alpha spark is powerful enough for a nemeton to reach out to it?"

Deaton and Stiles looked at each other.

"It’s your decision," Deaton said eventually, though with a tone that implied there was a clearly correct decision and a clearly incorrect decision. Stiles looked at Peter.

"It's not that I_ have_ a spark, it's that I _am_ a spark."

Deaton sighed a third time. Apparently that hadn't been the correct one.

Peter was too busy being absolutely floored to notice.

"A _spark?_ Does Talia know?"

"Yeah. Her, and Deaton, and my dad even though he doesn't really understand it, are the only ones who know. And now you. So I guess, like, don't sell me out?" He laughed awkwardly, obviously a little tense.

Peter gave him another sharp look, and suddenly realized just how much of Stiles' trust he held. He would have been tempted to call it ignorance of youth, but he knew that Stiles didn’t trust easily. Stiles got along with just about everyone, but his only friends were Derek and Paige, and even then Peter was pretty sure that Stiles only told Derek a minimum of what he did in emissary training.

Peter felt a strange surge of protectiveness regarding that trust.

"Please," he said with an indignant sniff after clearing his throat. "If you're a spark then you're far too valuable to just sell off to the highest bidder. Besides, I already tried to do that with Laura when she was a toddler, and Talia got upset. It's not worth it."

Stiles laughed, leaning in toward Peter a little to brush their shoulders together. Peter could feel their pack bond humming.

A spark. Jesus. No wonder Stiles did things like accidentally empty a pond.

"Congratulations, Stiles," Deaton said after a moment of quiet focus on the jar, all the ingredients formed into a pattern that Peter could only vaguely read. "It's a bouncing baby demon." His voice was drier than the Sahara.

Stiles stared at him with his mouth open for a moment.

"Well, fuck."

"Language," Deaton reprimanded.

"It's a_ demon,_ Deaton, I don't think 'gosh darn it' is really gonna cut it here."

Deaton pinched the bridge of his nose and then rubbed his eyes.

"It's a nogitsune, to be specific. A chaos demon. How it came to be under the nemeton, I have no idea." He sat back with a frustrated and bewildered look on his face.

"A nogitsune?" Peter leaned in to peer more closely at the jar, intrigued. "Perhaps we should counsel with a kitsune."

"Yes, just let me pull out my rolodex of centuries old fox spirits," Deaton snapped. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Come on now, Deaton, of course I don't expect you to have a rolodex of centuries old fox spirits. No one uses a rolodex anymore. Who doesn't keep numbers stored in their phone?" Peter pulled out his cell then, and held it up to his ear after a few taps.

"Hello Noshiko. What do you know about nogitsune?"

Deaton's lips pursed for a moment, but then he simply shook his head and directed his attention to Stiles as Peter talked.

“I’d ask why you called Peter first-“

Stiles leaned forward, mouth nearly visibly full of words, only for Deaton cut him off with a hand.

“-but I don’t think I have the energy to try to follow your logic. However, I will say that in the future, you should call me or Talia first.”

“… Technically, I didn’t call anyone. I texted. What’s a rolodex?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles 100% knows what a rolodex is.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter clutched at his side, wondering if this was cosmic payback for that time he'd replaced Talia's shampoo with Nair. He thought death seemed a little extreme as a consequence, although at the time he's sure Talia wouldn't have agreed.

He wondered how fast he could replenish his own blood. It was practically a waterfall now. He couldn't believe he was going to die in an alleyway outside a gay club. Actually no, that part was believable. He couldn't believe he was going to die in an alleyway outside a gay club, and that it _hadn't even been in pursuit of getting laid._

He was starting to feel cold, and that wasn't a very good sign. Peter made another effort to stand up, causing blood to rush from his side even faster. He made it about half a step before collapsing again. His phone was long gone, and his throat still crushed to the point of being unable to make noise.

He was going to die.

Disappointment lanced through him sharply.

Peter didn't regret it, exactly. Talia would know what had happened as soon as his body was found, and she'd be furious, but Peter had done what needed to be done. He'd done his job as left hand, and she would have to respect that. The pack was safer now.

He was just disappointed that he wouldn't get to see them enjoy it.

Wouldn't see Laura graduate college.

Wouldn't see Cora join the basketball team.

Wouldn't see Derek get married to Paige.

Wouldn't see Stiles-

Stiles?

Peter squinted. It was hard for him to see through the blood clumping his eyelashes, even with his werewolf eyesight, but he was pretty sure that was Stiles. Talking to an incredibly tall woman in heavy makeup. Oh, Peter knew her too. Miss Anthropy. She ran the drag show every Friday.

Peter tried to growl to get his attention, but he couldn't even do that. Desperately, he grabbed hold of the pack bond they shared and tugged on it viciously. He saw Stiles double over and bring a hand up to his stomach as if he'd been punched. Miss Anthropy placed a hand on his back, very obviously concerned. Stiles tried to wave away her worry, but judging by the look on her face he wasn't very successful. She straightened up, holding out a staying hand before walking away_. _

Peter tugged on their bond again, and Stiles looked around wildly, his heart rate galloping. Peter let his eyes glow, desperately hoping that Stiles would look down the alley-

"Peter? Holy shit, Peter?!"

Stiles ran down to where Peter was, looking more horrified by the moment.

"Oh my God, what the fuck happened!" His hands fluttered around Peter, unsure of what he should touch and where the worst injuries were.

Peter felt a huge part of his gut unclench. Pack was here. _Stiles_ was here. Everything would be fine. Painstakingly, Peter lifted his hand and began fingerspelling.

"S-T-O-P-B-L-E-E-D-I-N-G-S-I-D-E" Stiles slowly spelled out. "Your side? Oh Jesus. Oh Christ on a cracker, that's a lot of blood. Okay. Okay I know this one. Wait, shit, Miss Anthropy is gonna be back soon."

Peter watched Stiles do a complicated little hand gesture , and the air at the front of the alleyway seemed to thicken until it was impossible to look through. Stiles focused entirely on Peter's injury then, bending over it and pulling up what was left of Peter's tattered shirt.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck, I think that's your kidney. Oh my God." He took a deep breath, and Peter could feel his long fingered hands trembling on his torn skin. Clumsily, Peter dragged one of his hands on top of Stiles, though he couldn't find the energy to squeeze.

They looked at each other for a moment, both of them paler than normal. Then Stiles took both sides of the tear in Peter's side, and pulled them together, whispering in Latin.

Peter would have screamed if it were possible. It burned in a way he'd never experienced before. Like being struck by lightning and burned up from within all at once. He lost the moment, completely immersed in pain, and by the time by came back to himself, the wound was closed and Stiles was looking for the next worst injury.

Panting, Peter directed his attention to his throat. Stiles shook his head.

"I can't, Peter. Vocal cords are really easy to fuck up. You've got like, a ring- your throat got crushed, right? It's better to just let your healing take care of that."

Peter frowned.

"Don't you fucking pout at me," Stiles snapped at him, hands still frantically moving as they found injury after injury. "I came here for a drag show and now I'm kneeling in a puddle of what I hope to God is nothing worse than piss and semen, hands covered in your blood and probably also a little bit of your guts, saving your dumb life. I don't want to ruin your sexy voice forever just because I'm pretending to be Florence Nightingale and you're impatient, alright? Now tell me what else needs to be healed before I can get you into the Jeep."

Peter rolled his eyes and pointed to his thigh. He was pretty sure his femur was broken.

"Great," Stiles said flatly. "This is not how I imagined getting you out of your pants, you know. Well, actually this specific alley may or may not have featured in a few- nevermind. The point is I didn't think you'd be bleeding to death. Hold still, I'm going to have to cut the jeans open."

Stiles did exactly that, and then had to take another moment to keep his dinner down at the sight of bone sticking out of the leg. He rallied quickly, though, and after another endless minute of intense, searing pain, the bone was back in place and the skin was healed.

Peter and Stiles both sat back, breathing heavily, faces worn. Stiles continued to stare at his thigh.

"That was- that was really close to your femoral vein. What if- shit. Peter what the fuck happened?"

Peter closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them, gesturing for Stiles to help him up. He managed to stay upright with Stiles' help this time, and together they made it to the car.

When Stiles started heading toward the pack house, Peter waved a hand with as much force as he could, pointing instead at Stiles' chest.

"What? You want to come back to my house?" Stiles asked incredulously. "Peter, you need the pack!”

Peter shook his head again, jabbing his finger at Stiles again. They continued on like that for a few minutes until Peter tried to get out of the car, and then Stiles finally gave in, taking him home. It was another arduous four-legged trip up the walk, and then up into Stiles' bathroom, but they made it.

In the harsh light of the mirror, everything looked even worse. Peter couldn't even imagine what he'd looked like when Stiles found him. His legs had finally healed enough that he was able to hobble over to the shower and turn it on. Stiles left, and Peter could hear him digging through his drawers. Peter scrubbed the blood from his body, the ache in every movement made worth it by the happiness that it wasn't just his own blood going down the drain.

By the time he was done, a pair of sweats and a t-shirt had appeared on the sink countertop. Peter must have been more tired than he realized if Stiles could sneak in here without him realizing. Slowly and carefully, he dressed, mindful of all the places that were still trying to heal. Stiles appeared outside the bathroom door just in time to help him into his room.

Peter gingerly sat down on Stiles' bed, slumping over a moment later. Stiles seemed unsure of what to do.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. Peter didn't say anything, because he couldn't and also because it was a stupid question. "Right," Stiles followed up. "Can't talk." He sighed. "If I were good at this emissary shit, this is where I'd call Talia and tell her that her left hand is half dead in my bed.” He paused. “Shit. My bed. Where am I going to sleep?"

At that, Peter reached up and found just enough strength to pull Stiles down next to him, barely avoiding the flailing limbs. The smell of pack soothed him, making him feel even sleepier on top of the blood loss.

"O-kay," Stiles said slowly. "Can I take off the piss-puddle jeans first?"

Peter grudgingly let him go long enough to do that. Giving him time to put on pajama pants was a step too far, though. Peter yanked him back into bed when he was in his boxers, sloppily clapping a hand over Stiles' mouth to muffle his complaints.

He was asleep fifteen seconds later.

* * *

Peter woke up with a headache. And a side ache. Finger aches too, apparently those were a thing. He groaned in a gravel rough voice and turned his face into the nearest source of warmth, trying to block out the light and go back to sleep. It smelled nice here. Waking up all the way felt like it would be unpleasant, so Peter was willing to put it off for as long as possible.

"Does that zombie sound mean your throat is healed?"

Peter's eyes snapped open. He pulled his head back far enough to see.

Stiles' face was a combination of concerned, nervous, and irritated.

"Because if your throat is healed, then you need to tell me exactly what the fuck happened last night."

Peter groaned again and rolled onto his back, brushing up against Stiles' body in the process-

"-and you are not allowed to say _anything_ about awkward morning boners because I saved your life last night," Stiles said vehemently, pulling away and sitting up. "That gets me like three comment-free boners."

Peter chuckled a little, and then cringed when it intensified the everywhere-ache. The concerned look on Stiles' face took over for a moment, and he tore back the blanket and yanked up Peter's shirt, inspecting the place where the gash had been. Peter half-heartedly batted away his hands.

"Stop it, I'm fine,” he croaked out. His voice still sounded more like a chainsaw on gravel than his usual smooth tones, but at least he could talk.

"Maybe, but I could see way too much of your insides last night, so you'll have to pardon my excessive concern," Stiles bit out. "I went out expecting to see lip syncing to Lady Gaga and instead ended up magically sewing your guts back together. I'm a little invested in your wellbeing."

"Gaga Night was last night?" Peter said, put out. "Damn, I wanted to see that."

Stiles sat back with a raised eyebrow.

"You go to the drag shows?"

"When I can. I've never seen you there."

"I met Miss Anthropy a couple weeks ago at a graduation party, and she invited me. She's super pissed at me for disappearing on her last night, by the way, so that's another thing you owe me for. What the hell were you doing, Peter?"

There was an urgent need to know in his question. Not just curiosity, but a nearly pathological need for information. Peter could sympathize. That didn't mean he was going to say anything, though.

"There was something I needed to take care of, and Talia advised against my involvement. I proceeded to take care of it anyway. Things got a little more violent than I'd hoped."

Actually, he'd hoped for quite a lot of violence, just not toward him. Silence fell on the bedroom.

"That's it? That's all the information you're going to give me?" Stiles said, appalled. "No. You have to give me more than that. Is it more than one person? Is it a person at all? Is this something that's going to come after the pack-?"

"No," Peter interrupted, tone short. "She's dead."

Stiles looked at him piercingly. Peter kept his expression blank, a poker face that had worked in some of the tensest courtrooms in the state. Somehow he still felt like it wasn't enough to keep Stiles out.

"'She,’" Stiles mumbled to himself, still searching Peter's face. He tapped a finger once against Peter's side, unconsciously sliding it along unbroken skin there. Peter had to suppress a shudder. Stiles finally sat back, taking his hands with him.

"You'll tell me someday." It wasn't a question. Peter thought he was probably right. "Are you hungry? You're probably dying of thirst, you lost like eight gallons of blood last night. Dad's still at the station, so you don't need to hide in here or anything." Stiles got up and wandered out of the room, continuing to talk about breakfast as he went. Peter listened idly as he tried to work up the effort to get out of bed.

Everything was fine.

Thanks to Stiles, everything was fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chinhands* I believe in equal opportunity whump :) Guess what that means :)


	5. Chapter 5

**From: Stiles**  
GUESS WHO GOT INTO MIT!!

**From: Peter**  
You applied to MIT?

**From: Stiles**  
ofc not, but Lydia did!!!

**From: Peter**  
I thought you were done pining over the Banshee? Or are you stalking her all the way to Boston?

**From: Stiles**  
Okay, first of all 🖕

**From: Stiles**  
Second of all, yes I’m done pining. We’re friends though, I’m allowed to be excited for my friends.

**From: Stiles**  
And third, I’m still waiting to hear back from that warlock in Arizona, Dr. Easton. If I can get him to take me on as an apprentice it'll be awesome.

**From: Peter**  
The one in Phoenix? Who specializes in elementalism?

**From: Stiles**  
That's the bitch!

**From: Stiles**  
Except not bitch. That's probably disrespectful. That's the esteemed mentor!

**From: Pete**r  
He's connected to the Flores pack. I did some work for them a while ago, I'll put in a good word. He'll take you.

**From: Stiles**  
Really? Thanks dude!

**From: Peter**  
Don't call me dude.

**From: Stiles**  
But you get mad when I call you babe ☹️ 😔

**From: Peter**  
🙄

**From: Stiles**  
😘

* * *

Peter loved how right he always was. Paige really was an excellent addition to the pack.

She and Derek had gotten into Berkeley together, and while they weren't technically living together, they might as well have been. The downside of this was that Talia worried about them burning out their relationship when all their peers were trying new things. The upside was that having her around meant that Derek's pack withdrawal wasn't so severe.

Paige also made him call several times a week to keep the family updated, which Talia adored.

Pete loved being right.

Usually.

He'd also been right about Stiles. Dr. Easton had accepted Stiles and immediately whisked him off to Mexico, and then Hawaii, and Alaska was up next. Supposedly. According to the information he could get from John, which wasn't much. And he got nothing from Stiles.

Considering how often Stiles had texted him in high school, Peter was surprised when communication slowly petered out over the last four months. He hadn't really thought it possible for Stiles to actually shut up. That's all, really. That was the only reason he thought about it. He certainly didn't miss the little reprobate.

Besides, Stiles still texted John and Derek.

Once again, _usually._

"Peter, have you heard from Stiles?" Derek asked over the phone.

"Why would I have heard from him? You were his conjoined twin for the last six years," Peter said testily, only half focused on the conversation as he looked through case files for an upcoming trial.

Derek gave an impatient grunt.

"He's been busy with Dr. Easton, but he usually texts me at least a couple times a week. He hasn't talked to me in two."

Derek suddenly had Peter's full attention.

"Two weeks? You haven't talked to him for two weeks?"

"That's what I said."

"You waited _two weeks_ to tell me?" Peter demanded.

"He said he was headed to Alaska!" Derek said defensively. "Reception was gonna be spotty! I wasn't sure- I just wasn't sure, okay? Look, please help me alright?” He sounded extremely distressed now. “We have to find him.”

“Forward me your last conversation with him.”

Peter hung up, unwilling to waste time.

He had an emissary-in-training to find.

* * *

Had someone kidnapped him? As a spark he was incredibly valuable- but only three people knew he was a spark. Not even Dr. Easton knew.

Had Easton gotten them into some sort of trouble they couldn't get out of?

Had Stiles gotten lost, and Easton was too embarrassed to tell the pack?

Had they just fallen down a fucking ice crevasse together?

Peter's car gunned it up the Canadian highways, and he made it to Anchorage more than half a day before anyone legally could have done so. Of course, that was when he got a text.

**From: Stiles**  
Hey, can someone come get me?

Peter stared at his phone.

**From: Stiles**  
I'm staying with some yeti but we're having a few cultural misunderstandings.

**From: Stiles**  
They don't cook meat.

**From: Peter**  
Stiles where the fuck are you? You haven't contacted anyone in two weeks. Where is Easton?

**From: Stiles**  
I'm just inside the southern border of Denali National Park. I’ll drop a GPS pin.

**From: Peter**  
I'm in Anchorage. I'm coming to get you.

**From: Stiles**  
Sure dude.

**From: Stiles**  
Watch out for baby yeti poop. They don't exactly do diapers here.

Peter was gonna fucking murder him.

* * *

Peter tracked him down to a denser thicket of trees among the already dense forest. The yetis must have been warned of his coming, because they were waiting for him, but didn't seem particularly trustful. They led him into their village, though it was less "leading" and more "frog marching."

They reached the mouth of a little ice cave and less-than-gently tugged Peter inside. Then they abruptly let go and went to stand on either side of the room, like guard dogs. The room was filled with furry, wiggly little yetis in what looked like ice bassinets. Another yeti sat to the side, feeding tiny bites of bloody meat to a group of toddlers. The only thing out of place in the room was a bundle of fabric tucked in a corner.

Peter shot a resentful look back at the guards before inspecting the bundle closer. It was mostly puffer insulation and waterproof shells, with a little cuff of plaid sticking out of the top-

"Stiles?"

The fabric moved.

"Peter?"

His face emerged from the cocoon.There were deep, dark hollows under his eyes, and a still healing bruise along his jaw, as well as another near his left temple. Peter clenched his jaw and quickly closed the space between them, kneeling in front of Stiles. The fast movement caused the yetis to growl threateningly, but Stiles held up a placating hand, reaching out for him before Peter could prompt the yetis into action.

Stiles touched his face with a gloved hand, but it wasn't enough. Peter reached up and wrapped a hand around his wrist, wriggling his fingers until they found bare skin and a pulse. He breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.

Stiles practically looked like a corpse, after all.

"You came," Stiles said dumbly. "You actually came. You were really in Anchorage." He paused. "What the hell were you doing in Anchorage?"

"It's been over two weeks since anyone heard from you, where else would I be?" Peter asked, gauging the amount of pain Stiles was still in as he drew it. There wasn't as much as he feared, but enough to make him angry. "Where the hell is Easton? He's supposed to keep you out of any real trouble. You're eighteen for God's sake," Peter fumed quietly, looking closer at the scrapes on Stiles' face. Stiles' expression went blank.

"Easton is dead."

Peter pulled back a little in shock.

"What? What happened?"

Stiles' jaw clenched and he flinched painfully, then forcing himself to relax.

"He tried to sell me. Just- straight up sell me, like a beagle. He found out I was a spark- figured it out on his own, I think. I doubt anyone told him. Plus he kinda changed after the first two months- got weird at first, and then overcompensated in the opposite direction. Like he knew he was being weird and was determined to be twice as normal to make up for it. Got even stricter about practice and who I was allowed to talk to.” Stiles sighed, slumping a little harder into Peter's hands. “You probably appreciated the break, but I really missed talking to you.”

“He’s the reason you stopped texting me?” Peter clarified, stroking the skin along Stiles’ jaw without thought, intent on the answer.

“Yeah. I think he was trying to sound like a hardass. But then I thought that maybe it was all calculated. Maybe he had a plan, maybe I really did need to cut off everyone if I wanted to learn… Anyway, as soon as we got here, he 'accidentally' broke my phone. Kept making excuses to not go into town to get a new one; stuff like needing to work on meditation and phones being a distraction. Thank fuck I kept the broken one anyway. We were here for over a week before he just up and decided that we were hiking into Denali that day. I knew he was acting weird. I _knew_ it, Peter and I went anyway." The self recrimination in his tone was cutting. "We snowshoed almost ten miles... and then he attacked me. Tried to knock me out." He looked devastated for a moment before he smiled viciously. "I attacked back. He's a pretty good elementalist, but he was nowhere near my level of power. When he realized it wasn't going to work, he got more aggressive. That's when the buyers showed up."

Stiles fell into silence for a moment. Peter rubbed soothing circles into his wrist.

"They were less worried about damaging me, I guess. Whatever they wanted me for, apparently I'd still be able to do it with a shattered rib cage, because I'm pretty sure that's what they were aiming for. It was too much. I couldn't keep them all back- I couldn't make it stop. I just fucking lost it, Peter. I haven't blasted energy like that since Mom died. The next thing I knew, Easton was on the ground without a pulse, and the buyers were running away. I don't even know who they were." He paused again, clearly deep in the memory. "I should have known he was a slimy motherfucker. We weren't even supposed to go to Alaska. We were supposed to go back to Arizona, but he changed the plan at the last minute."

"How did you manage to text me?" Peter asked, looking around the little ice cave. He was pretty sure Verizon didn't cover here.

"I made a spell for wifi. It took me a few days to figure it out, and to get the phone to even work before that, _and_ it only lasts about thirty minutes at a time- but it worked enough to text you. And my dad. I texted him after you, so he knows I'm still alive now. The spell cut out before he could send anything back, though."

"So you texted me first again," Peter said absently as he made plans in his head for getting Stiles out of here.

Stiles pulled his gaze away from the midpoint of remembrance and finally fully focused on Peter again. He gave a little half smile.

"The middle of an ice forest didn’t seem harder than a pitch black alley or a demon infested tree. We always find each other."

* * *

They got out of the forest by the evening. Peter learned that the yetis had found Stiles in the woods not long after the fight. Stiles couldn’t actually remember a lot of it, due to the probable concussion and magical exhaustion, but when he'd fully awoken, he’d been in the nursery with the babies.

Stiles still wasn’t sure if they thought he was an actual baby, or if that was just where all their caretakers were.

Peter checked them into a hotel for the night. No way was he going to immediately put Stiles in a car and make him ride for hours and hours.

Peter drew a bath while Stiles sat on the closed toilet lid. He'd objected at first, saying he could do it himself, until Peter stepped into Stiles' space and pulled his shirt up, revealing deep bruising along his ribs. Stiles' mouth fell open for a moment in surprise, and then he scowled.

"Okay, first of all, if I don't get to call you babe then you don't get to take my shirt off, and second of all how did you even know that was there? I didn't know it was there!"

Peter went back to fiddling with the taps, making a pleased noise when he found a tiny pack of epsom salts to throw in.

"You've been breathing differently from usual. More shallow, less regular. I imagine your extended period of shock and state of near-hypothermia have combined to make it difficult for you to fully assess your injuries."

Stiles just stared at him for a moment as the bath finished filling and he turned off the taps. When he stood up, Stiles did too, and they stood face to face for a moment.

Peter realized they were finally the same height. Stiles was still staring.

"Differently from usual," Stiles echoed quietly with an odd look on his face. Then, very deliberately, he took a step forward right into Peter's space and wrapped his arms around him, leaning his forehead onto Peter's shoulder and pressing their bodies together. Carefully, avoiding anywhere near the bruising, Peter hugged him right back.

They stood there for a long moment, both of them gathering something that had been missing for too long.

Eventually Peter stepped back, clearing his throat.

"You should get in before it gets cold."

Stiles smiled.

"Yeah. Wouldn't want to be cold in Alaska, now would we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter: I've subconsciously categorized every sound that belongs to you, from your loudest voice to your softest breath. Please take this warm soothing bath that I've made to ease your aches, because I can't stand to see you in pain.  
Stiles: Aw babe :)  
Stiles, thinking silently: epsom salts are a scam.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter wanted to rest a few more days before leaving, but Stiles wasn't having it.

"It's gonna suck in the car or it's gonna suck in a hotel room. I just want to go home, Peter. My dad's worried. The pack is worried. My ribs are taped up, it'll be fine."

Peter pursed his lips in disagreement vis á vis his ribs, but his own desire to have Stiles safe on pack lands eventually tipped the scales. They started driving home, significantly slower than Peter had made the trip up.

Stiles slept for most of the first day. They'd made a pit stop at home goods store and bought seven pillows that were strategically stuffed around the passenger seat to lessen the impact of bumpy highways, and it mostly worked. Peter's more or less continuous pain drain may have also helped. That night at the roadside hotel, Peter drew another bath for Stiles, and afterward he promptly fell asleep again.

When he woke up two hours later, screaming Easton’s name, Peter slid into his bed, enfolding him into his arms until he slept again.

The second day he spent more time awake, watching the cities and trees fly by the car.

"What do I do now?" he murmured once, after a long silence.

"You were going to register with the board of emissaries after this, weren't you?" Peter asked, a little perplexed.

"I can't just register, I have to apply. There's a whole testing and interview process. I still have the backing of Deaton, but without an endorsement from Easton..." Stiles continued to stare out the window for another moment before rubbing his eyes. "I'd be applying as Deaton's student with the intent of eventually taking Deaton's place in the Hale pack. I have nothing else to put in my references now. The board doesn't really like that. And I get it, it's kind of incestuous and masturbatory to have a single line of emissaries for a pack, with no outside influences. It's too easy to create an echo chamber. Eventually you get the magical equivalent of Charles II, except instead of a Habsburg jaw, you end up with things like weird racism and big gaps in magical education."

"Can you get another apprenticeship?"

"Yeah... probably not for a while, there's only like twelve people in North America who take apprentices, but yeah. I just. I don't know if I should, now."

Peter tapped the steering wheel as he thought about what Stiles was implying.

If one warlock spotted Stiles' abilities, who was to say that the next one wouldn't? Whatever those buyers had been willing to pay was clearly worth the risk of incurring the wrath of the Hale Pack.

It incensed him that his pack wasn't seen as enough of a threat to prevent this. Talia knew that Peter's job as the left hand was necessary, something to be respected. When he'd earned his blue eyes she'd been the only one not to flinch away. But she was over-invested in appearances.

_Sometimes death is necessary, but we're not going to wear it like a crown, Peter. _

Peter didn't want a crown.

What he wanted was a bright flashing neon sign that said, **If you hurt my pack, you're going to die. If you touch Stiles, I'm going to kill you.**

He couldn't build a sign, but he could send a message.

"What did the buyers look like?"

"A pair of identical twins, about my age. And a dude wearing sunglasses. The twins were definitely werewolves. I'm not sure what sunglasses guy was." Stiles paused for a moment, thinking. "Sunglasses guy didn't actually do much. He mostly stood on the side and told the other two what to do. They-" Stiles frowned again for a moment. "It's hard to remember, because I was freaking out, but... I thought they both had Alpha eyes? That can't be right though."

Peter felt ice lance through his gut.

A man in sunglasses.

Red eyes.

That couldn't be right, though. Deucalion must still be hidden away somewhere, licking the wounds of his cut-down plans.

Peter gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"What else do you remember?" he asked sharply.

Stiles looked over at the change in his tone, bewildered.

"I mean, beyond giving myself a concussion when I blacked out and blasted them? Not a lot."

"If I'm going to find them, I need every detail, Stiles. Did the man with glasses have a cane? Did he move like a wolf? Which direction did they flee?"

"Did he have a- what? What kind of specific-ass question is that?" Stiles sat up a little straighter with a wince. "Peter do you know who the buyers are?!"

"I don't know anything yet," Peter denied. "I know even less than you do." He paused. "But... two Alphas working together, and a man with sunglasses who stands by to give orders? I've seen that before."

He paused again, long enough that Stiles got impatient.

"Well? Who was it?"

Peter's face turned into a sneer.

"Deucalion."

* * *

They decided to stop for lunch, and found themselves in a little diner before continuing their conversation.

"Remember when you found me outside of The Jungle?” Peter asked after they’d ordered.

Stiles sent him a little disbelieving look.

"Yeah, dude. Putting someone's guts back into their body isn't exactly a forgettable experience."

"Don't call me dude."

"Then let me call you babe."

Peter smiled an affectionate little smile for a moment, interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. After she the table, his face fell into a grim expression.

"I killed a member of Deucalion's pack that night. His Alpha pack."

"His _what,_ now?" Stiles asked, appalled.

Peter gave him a brief explanation of Deucalion's background, and his insane plans to make more powerful Alphas by having them kill their packs.

"I first became aware of his plans years ago, when he spoke with… with someone I knew. Ennis. Ennis inherited his pack young, too young if I'm honest. Hunters killed his Alpha and he was forced into it before he'd finished college. He came to Talia for advice, which is how I met him, right after my own Alpha and mother had died.” Peter poked around his salad with a fork, taking a bite to give himself time to gather his next words. "Deucalion found him, somehow. Came to him at a weak point, I imagine, when he felt burdened by the weight of responsibility for his pack. It took time. Ennis changed slowly, so slowly that I didn't notice it happening. It was as if one day he was my friend, someone with whom I could hunt, someone I could understand- and the next he was a stranger asking me if I'd help him kill his pack."

"He was so earnest, Stiles. He asked for help to kill his entire pack, saying that afterward that we could find an Alpha for me to kill, gather a pack for me, and then kill them too so we'd both be powerful." Emotion tightened Peter’s throat until it hurt, causing frustration that just made his throat tighter. This had been years ago. He should be over it. He should-

Peter startled when Stiles' hand covered his clenched fist resting on the table. Slowly, he loosened his fist and turned his hand over, grasping Stiles' fingers, aware of how gentle he still needed to be. He took a few deep breaths.

"I went to his pack. I told them what he was planning. They didn't believe me at first, obviously. Not until Ennis came. When Ennis killed the oldest pack member, the shock nearly knocked out the rest of them. There was a fight after that. I helped. Ennis' cousin dealt the final blow and took over the pack, but they were devastated. I went home with blue eyes." He looked up at Stiles. "It's not the act of killing an innocent, you know. It's the guilt you feel. I felt like I'd killed an entire pack that day. Just not the way Ennis intended."

Stiles squeezed his hand a little tighter.

"And the night I found you?"

"That was Kali," Peter said, voice changing from grief filled to venomous. "It took him years to find her, but I'm not sure Deucalion had to convince her at all. Seemed like she was primed for it." The disgust in his voice was enough that a couple at the table next to them glanced over. Peter lowered his tone more. "Deucalion was apparently a little upset with me for interfering with Ennis. Once he had Kali, the first thing he asked her to do was to threaten me against further involvement. When I told Talia, she wanted me to stay out of it. Didn't want me to endanger myself and make my name known as someone who handles the death of Alphas."

"Judging by how much blood I had to clean up that night, you didn't agree," Stiles said dryly.

"No," Peter agreed. "Once again, I wasn't the one who dealt the killing blow. I've watched Talia as an Alpha since I was young. I have no desire to have to play the kind of politics she does. I don't want the Alpha spark. Luckily there was someone else willing to take the final swing. Kali's ex-emissary." Stiles let out a low whistle. Peter continued. "Who also happened to be her ex-girlfriend."

"Christ," Stiles swore. "Kali didn't kill her with the rest of her pack?"

"She tried," Peter answered, idly tapping his thumb on Stiles' palm now. "Jennifer was in bad shape when I met her. More than a little insane. Once she killed Kali, she broke completely. I ended up having to kill her, but not before she got in those last few cuts that led to me bleeding out during drag night."

"Fuck, Peter.” Stiles took a moment to breathe through the memory of finding Peter in the alley. “Why hasn’t Deucalion killed you yet?”

“I’m the left hand of the Hale pack. Third in authority. If he kills me, he not only incurs the wrath of Talia, he brings himself to the attention of all our allies. It’s not worth it. Not yet.”

Stiles took the bit about “not yet” and put it in his pocket to think about later.

“What about the twins? Do you know anything about them?"

Peter shook his head.

"Whoever they are, they're new, and if they have red eyes then they've already killed their pack. I thought it would take Deucalion longer to find someone new to join him, much less two... In any case, I have some things to look into once we're home."

"It has to be a pretty narrow search, right?" Stiles mused. "Identical twins from a pack that's recently decimated. There can't be many people that fit that description."

Peter hummed in agreement before reluctantly letting go of Stiles' hand.

"You should finish eating before we get back in the car."

"Oh, yeah." Stiles looked down at his soup, the only thing he could really eat with his heavily bruised jaw. "You realize I'm going to have to pee again in like twenty minutes if I eat this whole bowl?"

"Eat anyway. If we can't find a bathroom, there are always trees."

"Excuse me, I'm not the canine here. We'll find a bathroom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter can make dog jokes about _other_ people, but they can't make dog jokes about _him_


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles was right on both counts. Twenty minutes later he had to pee, and they did in fact find a bathroom.

It was the only one for miles, though. The only gas station for quite a long stretch of the Canadian Wilderness. Empty, too, except for the attendant, Peter, and Stiles.

That is, empty until another car pulled up while Stiles was in the bathroom.

Peter looked up from where he was stretching his legs in a little wooded area next to the gas station, and watched the other passengers get out.

Two identical twins.

And a man in sunglasses.

Peter froze as the trio walked into the little gas station convenience store. As soon as they disappeared, Peter dashed over to the side of the building and started banging on the door to the bathroom.

"Get out we have to go."

"Hold on a second, let me-"

Peter cut him off.

“Your buyers are here."

The silence on the other side of the door was broken only by the deafening increase in Stiles' heart rate. The door opened a second later, only for Peter to be yanked inside. Stiles produced a permanent marker from a pocket somewhere and quickly scrawled a rune on the door among all the graffiti.

"Why didn't we see them following us?" Stiles asked frantically, capping the marker and shoving back into his pocket.

"I'm not sure they _are_ following us," Peter said. "Deucalion didn't even tilt his head in my direction. If they came up to Alaska specifically to get you, then they must be headed back to the states too. This might just be the worst coincidence of all time."

Stiles groaned.

"Fuck my life. You know what, fuck your life too. Our lives are equally responsible here. Can we wait them out?”

The door rattled.

They both froze.

A knock came next.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

“That’s one of the twins,” Stiles hissed. “The rune I put up is for total silence, he’s going to think it’s just empty and locked.”

Peter heard footsteps walking away, and the chime of the door to the store.

“Come on.” Peter grabbed Stiles’ hand and quickly swept them both out of the tiny chemical-and-urine smelling room. He walked quickly, trying to move fast without drawing attention. When they reached the car Stiles automatically went for the passenger side door, but Peter yanked the back door open and pulled Stiles toward that instead, all but chucking him into the footwell, out of sight from the windows. He slammed the door shut after him, barely waiting for him to get his feet in, and swiftly walked around to the drivers side.

He pulled open the door, tucked his right foot in, ready to slide-

“Peter Hale. What’s a mongrel like you doing here?”

Peter froze for half a beat. Deucalion wouldn’t attack simply to get rid of Peter- but if Peter walked away without exchanging barbs, Deucalion might guess that Stiles was with him, which in turn might make an attack worth it.

Peter pulled his leg out of the car and snapped the door shut- sealing Stiles inside.

“Deucalion,” he said smoothly, stepping toward the wolf and away from the car. “How unfortunate to see you’re still alive. I’d be more than happy to help you out with that situation, if you’d like.”

Deucalion smirked; a cold thing that froze and shattered any humor in the air.

“How strange to run into you here, Peter. I thought you were still playing ‘Alpha Regulator’ down in California, despite Talia’s orders. I can’t imagine that she would be too happy to let you out of her sight… unless you’re on pack related business?”

“What an assumption to make, that I would go against a direct order from Talia, or that Talia would give me a direct order against which I have an ethical standing. Then again, you wouldn’t know anything about ethics, would you? Or packs, for that matter. I suppose I should make allowances for your ignorance.”

Deucalion’s sneer was a sharp, biting thing. An image of those teeth tearing into Stiles’ skin flashed through Peter’s mind. The sneer split open with the clear intent of spitting venomous words, but Peter cut him off.

“As wonderful as this little chat hasn’t been, it’s time for me to go,” he said, voice carefully careless. "Toodles.”

He turned, hand on the door handle, when Deucalion finally spoke.

“You can’t possibly think I’m just going to let you and the spark leave, do you? Not when the moon is clearly shining her preference on me, providing both of you wrapped up for me. The twins have already killed the only witness.”

The door to the convenience store opened then, the twins stalking out, eyes glowing and claws dripping with blood.

“Besides, now that the spark has you to protect, he can’t use his little blasting trick,” Deucalion finished with a satisfied leer.

Shit.

Peter quickly calculated his chances of getting into the car and out of the parking lot, against his chances in a fight. All of his chances were bad.

Then the car door behind him opened.

Actually, all of his chances were miserable.

Like bloodhounds catching a scent, the attention of the three of the other ‘weres snapped to Stiles. Peter risked a glance back as well with a half formed plan of throwing him the keys and distracting the others long enough for Stiles to get away.

That wasn’t going to work though, because Stiles, still clearly laying down in the footwell of the backseat, had flung open the door only to immediately slap both hands on the ground. A second later, the ground began to roll.

The asphalt rose, cracking and snapping as it moved in waves, knocking everyone off their feet and setting off an alarm inside the store. The trees danced, some swaying in time with the earth, others breaking and crashing down wherever fate pushed them. One landed on the store, knocking the sign down until it swung precariously from a single, sparking wire.

Peter, partially shifted, scrambled to get his back his bearings as the ground continued to roll. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he turned to face it with a snarl only to see Stiles crouched there, clutching his ribs with one hand and pulling on Peter with the other.

“Get in the fucking car!” Stiles yelled over the cracking of the trees and gas pumps, giving him one last tug before starting to crawl back toward the car.

_“You_ get in the fucking car!” Peter yelled back. “Your ribs are broken!”

“And yours were about to be, you little-“

Whatever he was the diminutive of, Peter didn’t get to find out, because a lighting fast form barreled into Stiles from the side, slamming a shoulder into the exact place Stiles’ ribs were already injured.

Peter let out a snarl, shifting completely, his only thought of ripping out Deucalion’s throat. Just as he lunged forward, a fist grabbed his leg from behind, yanking him backwards. He could feel huge, clawed arms wrapping around him, but his frantic attention was on Stiles.

Deucalion was above him, arms wrapped around his neck in a sleeper hold, the rolling of the ground slowing as Stiles scrabbled at the Alpha's arm.

"That's right, little spark, just go to sleep," Deucalion murmured around his shifted teeth. "Go to sleep."

Panic reached a peak inside Peter. He blindly swung a hand up over his shoulder and dug his claws into the first flesh he felt. He felt a squish, with far more give than he'd expected. A violent roar resonated through his back, the arm around him tightening briefly before releasing. Peter quickly tore his claws out, dragging them through whatever he'd dug into, ready to rip out the entrails of whichever twin had him-

Except as he turned, he saw the Alpha wasn't either of the twins. It reeled back, howling, and then shockingly, began to split into two. The misshapen hulk of flesh fell apart until the Alpha no longer existed, only the twins that Peter recognized from earlier. The one on the right was clutching his eye and screaming, blood streaming down his face. Peter stared, his mind trying to comprehend just what had happened, when the stilling of the ground broke him from his shock.

Peter spun around, ready to tear out Deucalion's throat, red eyes be damned. Stiles was almost completely still now, movements weak. His half closed eyes met Peter's for a moment, and his lips moved.

_Get. _

_Down. _

Peter dropped.

Half a second later he heard a snap, felt an unnaturally strong gust of wind, and saw the gas station sign fly over his head, going-

His mouth fell open.

Going straight through Deucalion's.

Beheaded, Deucalion’s arms dropped from Stiles' neck, slumping backwards.

Stiles leaned forward, coughing wetly, his breath sounding short and impeded.

Peter shot over, crouching in front of him and spinning to face the remaining threat.

The twins were staring, horrified, at the corpse behind Peter and Stiles. A moment hung suspended in the air, where everyone seemed to be waiting for the next starting gun.

Instead, one twin fell back a step. And then another. And then another.

And then both of them turned and ran.

Peter watched them disappear behind the tree line before finally turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles' skin was pale with a grey tinge. His breathing was uneven, labored. Fingers shaking, Peter yanked up Stiles' shirt. Deep red spread across his ribs, bleeding into the already black and purple bruising. Peter could see displaced bones beneath the skin.

"What- did I- say- about taking off- my shirt?" Stiles said, words arduously given breath.

"You can call me babe. You can call me whatever the fuck you want, just let me-" Peter stopped there, because he couldn't actually do anything. He couldn't fix a broken bone. He couldn't un-puncture a lung.

"Can I- call you- boyfriend?"

Peter looked up at Stiles.

His eyes were pained and tired, and somehow, impossibly, glinting with mischief.

Peter desperately wished for a moment that true love’s kiss could actually heal any ill.

"I'm not thirteen, Stiles. You can call me partner or mate."

"Cool," Stiles said. "You should- probably call- for- an ambulance first- though. I don't- think-" He was cut off by a coughing fit again, a grating, horrible sounding thing that only ended when Stiles temporarily passed out. By the time he woke up again, Peter was pulling his pain and on the phone with emergency services.

Peter watched his eyes open, going from hazy to sharp and then back to hazy as he realized Peter was there.

"Cool," Stiles said again, voice nearly a whisper. "Thanks babe."

* * *

Stiles wondered if this was some kind of record for Most Werewolves In A Hospital Room At Once. It wasn't as if werewolves had reason to be in the hospital often. They only came to visit other people. Maybe he should call Guinness Book of World Records. There had to be someone in the know there, right? Maybe there was a supernatural edition of the book that he could get-

"What kind of drugs do they have him on?"

"The kind that go with six broken ribs and a collapsed lung, Derek," Peter said from next to Stiles' hospital bed. Stiles looked over at him. God, he was so hot. In the sexy way and the temperature way. Stiles wiggled his fingers where Peter held them, soaking in the warm touch.

"Does Canada have the same pain killers as the US?" he wondered out loud. "Can I get maple flavored morphine here?"

"You can get whatever you want, sweetheart," Peter said. Derek made a gagging noise behind him. Peter shot out his unoccupied arm and whapped him without looking.

"Can I get maple flavored unbroken ribs?" Stiles asked.

"... whatever you want except that."

"Damn."

Talia shook her head, a little smile working at odds with the tense lines on her forehead. She looked at Peter.

"You're absolutely sure that Deucalion is dead?"

"Yes," Peter confirmed. "Stiles was... thorough."

"I chopped off his head," Stiles said. He frowned. "Are you mad? He wanted to kill Peter. And he tried to buy a person. A me-person. Actually, I don't care if you're mad. He tried to buy me and kill my boyfriend. Wait, shit, mate. He tried to kill my partner? Peter, both of those words suck. He tried to kill my babe, and I don't care if you're mad that he's dead."

The tense lines in Talia's forehead eased a bit more, which Stiles was pleased with.

"I'm not mad, Stiles," she assured him. "You protected my pack. You acted perfectly as emissary."

"Baller," Stiles mumbled, relieved, and brought his and Peter's combined hands up to his face to snuggle them. The others around him continued talking, something he thought he might be interested in if he were a little less stoned. He wondered when he'd get to eat something that wasn't soup. And for that matter, when he'd be allowed to exercise again.

After all, he had some beefcake to eat and a mountain to climb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Stiles finds a grumpy lesbian witch who takes him on as apprentice, Peter murders some more people, they smooch a bunch, Stiles gets accredited by the Emissary Board, Deaton finally retires and moves to the Virgin Islands to drink on the beach all day. The End.


End file.
